At 8:00 tonight, they shut the Bay Bridge down until (at least) Tuesday, when it will reopen with a new western span. The new western span sucks.

I got to make a last trip over and back on Saturday. The new piece is right up next to the old one, and I did not like the looks of it one bit. First of all, it's clean. Spotless white. What the fuck. From a logical standpoint, being uncomfortable driving over a bridge that looks like it hasn't seen too many successful crossings is understandable. But this new bridge pisses me off on more emotional levels. Such as, it's hella artsy and shit. They clearly tried to make a "cool" bridge. Don't do that... at least not to the Oakland side. Just gimme a big ugly practical hunk of steel that will not come off measurably worse in a couple decades when people are able to write their tags in the grime. But no, they went for "LOOK AT US!" instead. There was definitely somebody involved in the design and construction of that bridge who's sole job was to make sure it's featured in the climax of a movie where Taylor Lautner swings down and swoops up Selena Gomez with one arm while putting a bullet in cyborg John Malkovich's head. It looks like something you should have to pay $5 to drive acr- oh.

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It also reminds me of the Golden State Warriors, with their crappy new uniforms. Please don't remind me of the Warriors. I cheered for them my whole life when they were a shitty rebel team, and now they're insufferable and winning. The winning part doesn't bother me, because there is just no way I could possibly root for a team with Mark Jackson as coach and the owner's kid as assistant GM. Considering that I have two different Al Davis t-shirts in my regular rotation, any team that I turn my back on should be very ashamed of themselves. It's clearly not me. It's you.

And last but not least, the fucker tried to kill me. Early in it's construction, I was home for the holidays and borrowed the folks' car to go visit a lady friend in SF. Immediately after leaving the toll plaza, I ran over something. Pretty much no other choice than to go until the wheels fall off at that point. I charged it all the way to homegirl's house, whereupon I discovered that the rear passenger side tire was shredded... and the gas tank had been punctured and fuel was pouring out. By the time I got up and down from girl's pad to call my folks, police and fire were all over the ride, thinking somebody had ditched it after running from the cops.

I did not get laid that night.

That must have been 2002, because the joke became that if I had caught an ejected cigarette butt and gone up in flames, they would have found nothing but my beard and assumed I was a suicide bomber. Armenian humor. But seriously, fuck you, new bridge.